


Anarchist

by Sabriel (the_one_a_m_writer)



Series: The Lady Said No series [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 3rd party perspective, Bar, F/M, mission fic-sorta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 07:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18912349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_one_a_m_writer/pseuds/Sabriel
Summary: Clint and the redhead are back, and Blake gets an introduction





	Anarchist

They're back. 

Clint and the redhead. 

Blake watches with some amount of trepidation. Thousand eighty seven dollars and three cents aside, they did cause a bar fight. 

They're back, and they move together towards the bar with the ease of a long-time couple. They sit down, and the redhead angles her knees toward Clint. 

He squeezes her knee and she smacks him gently. “Behave.” 

“T minus twenty eight minutes,” he tells her. 

The redhead beckons Blake over. “Can I have a vodka martini?” 

“Sure,” Blake says. “You're not going to get in a fight again, are you?” 

The redhead laughs. “Sorry about that.” 

“I thought we were gonna get sued,” Blake says. “By the suit people.”

“Not a chance,” Clint says. “They’re part of an illegal secret organization.” 

“Oh-- okay then.”

Blake doesn’t quite know what to make of that. Is this normal? Either the illegal secret organization coming to the bar, or Clint and his unnamed redheaded girlfriend dealing with them?

 

“Got a name?” Blake asks finally. 

“Clint,” Clint offers. 

“Nat,” says the redhead. Natasha, Natalie, or just Nat-- no other name is forthcoming. 

“Blake,” Blake offers in return. “Here’s your vodka martini. You want anything?”

“I’m not allowed to drink on the job,” Clint grumbles. “Despite the fact I can still work better drunk than most of the agents can sober.”

“You’re one-of-a-kind,” Nat assures Clint, patting his elbow. “ _ And _ , you can’t hold your fucking alcohol.” 

“Yeesh.” Clint puts his hands up, at chest level. “It was one time...”

Nat sniffs. It was possibly more than one time. 

 

“Are you... expecting more illegal organization members?” Blake asks. 

“No,” Nat says. “By the way-- if they ask-- a pretty little redhead backhanded a drunk asshole and started a bar fight. When it was all over, they left.” 

“Yeah, that’s... that’s what happened,” Blake agreed. 

“Oh, good,” Clint says. “And, some rude customer broke a glass, and you’re busy with that mess, and that’s why you’re all flustered and not paying so much attention to their questions.”

“What?” Blake asks, because they haven’t had a broken glass in a while. Suddenly, then, Clint’s fingers drift towards the stem of Nat’s glass and ohhhh. 

_ Dammit, Clint.  _

Blake’s eyes close involuntarily against the sound of shattering glass. 

As if on cue, two men in suits enter the bar. Dutifully, Blake starts cleaning the fallen glass.

 

“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” the man says without preamble.

“I’m busy,” Blake says. “Also, watch out, there’s glass.”

“Were you bartending three nights ago?”

“What’s it to you?”

They reveal badges. “FBI. Were you bartending three nights ago?”

Blake futzes around with the rag and pretends to think about it. “Yeah, I was.” 

“What happened?”

“There was a bar fight.” 

“Can you remember an inciting incident?”

“I was hiding behind the bar,” Blake says, affecting annoyance. 

“Yes, but did something happen to begin the fight?”

“Watch the glass!” Blake snaps, as the man goes to put his ham hand on the counter. He pulls it back like he got shocked. 

“Did something happen to begin the fight?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know,” Blake says. “There was a girl, and there was this guy, and he was drunk, and she fuckin’ slapped him across the bar, I dunno.” 

It’s easier and easier to fake annoyance because the men are becoming less and less likeable. 

“Do you remember any of the other patrons in the bar that night?”

The men and women in suits. 

Would Nat want that information shared? Would Clint? Blake can’t resist a glance over, but sees Clint and Nat both at the pool table, Clint very obviously winning. 

“There were a buncha people in suits.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Yeah, a little.”

“Could you describe any of them?”

“They were wearing-- hey! Watch the FUCKING glass! They were wearing suits.”

Blake gets the last of the glass off the counter. 

“Want anything to drink?”

“No,” the men say. 

“Couldya clear out? You’re scaring the customers.”

They do, thankfully. They leave. Blake is left alone at the bar. 

“Great job,” Nat says, sliding back into her seat. 

“Thanks. Who were they?”

“FBI,” Nat says. “They showed you their badges, didn’t they?”

“That was actually the FBI?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Clint says. “You never lied.”

Blake considers that.

“Are you still on the job?”

“Yes,” Clint says. “In fact--” and he vanishes. 

 

Blake stares at Nat. “Where did he go?”

“To do his job,” she says. “What’s your opinion on the government?”

“Current administration’s kinda shit...”

“Yeah.” Nat leans against the glass-free bar. “What should we do if we don’t like how things are going?”

“Stay mad,” Blake says after some thought. “Do what you can. Use your privilege to gain advantages for other people.”

“Cause a riot?”

“Don’t hurt innocents. Some people we think are the problem are just along for the ride. Some aren’t.”

“Break the law?”

“Not that I would,” Blake says, because, you know, FBI-- and being at work, “but a little anarchy doesn’t always sound like the worst thing.”

“I like anarchy,” Nat says. “When do you work?”

“Why?”

“Because I know you now. I might want to stop by and get a drink.”

“When you stop by, there are always men in suits.” 

“Yep.”

Blake is actually fine with this. Bartending is surprisingly boring. A little anarchy might be welcome. 

“Leave me your number and I might text you?” Blake offers. 

“Aha. You’re crafty.”

Nat pulls a sharpie out of fucking nowhere and starts scrawling on Blake’s arm. “Stay smart, little anarchist,” she says. And she, too, slips away into the night. 

 

“Oooh. Whose number didja get?” Anna asks. 

“None of your fuckin’ business,” Blake says, and begins to rub away the numbers with the third washing of soap. 

It doesn’t matter; they’re memorized. 

**Author's Note:**

> suggestions enthusiastically accepted please 
> 
> literally my dream for this fic is that i just get a shitton of input from y'all and put it into stories


End file.
